Seriously why do we have to write titles? I’m stumped.

Today I feel like a human person again, thank fuck.
I am..
well no, I was going to be all happy happy joy joy happy happy joy in this post 

but I’m not sure how long I can keep that up for. Oh right… that long. Moving on then…

I only had like 6 hours sleep again… and my hand hurts… although after the self-loathing of yesterday I have to say I only have a slight pain in my personality and think I’m a mildly despicable person.

So lack of sleep.. yeah sorry but you’re hearing about it…

It’s because as I was about to go to sleep like a good girl at 1.30am, I realised where I had left my stupid companion in the computer game, so I launched into that again and of course didn’t just pick up my companion but also went on a bit of a virtual thieving binge…
and then managed to drag myself out kicking and screaming (not really) and finally just as I was about to be cool and unplug for the night, a sneaky little thought…. why don’t I check facebook to see if any of my desperate attempts at engaging fellow humans in conversation had found a foothold?

And I found my…ahem… screensaver… online.
We had a little chat. I tried to keep the molten depression from my words but still, he probably only stayed talking because he thought I might kill myself or something. I tried to be cheery but it came out bitter… dang.

Anyway I tried to intersperse my “why meeeee”s with something that hinted strongly towards I want to sex you again when I’m back in Ireland but I couldn’t figure out a good sentence to write. He suggested doing something that made me sweat to get rid of the hangover blues, and I  was like hot damn that’s my in, that’s an opener right there… but then I didn’t go for it because as a woman, and not talking via webcam, the effect of me pulling off my top and leaping into an arousing rendition of peter andre’s mysterious girl “girl I wanna make you sweat, sweat until you can’t sweat no more” might not have been what I was looking for… and, if it had been, it probably would have freaked me out.

Anyway I let the “sweat” cue die and we talked pleasantries for a bit.
Then I finally admitted there was going to be no place in this hung over pitiful conversation for me to mention sex, and I wasn’t going to go for broke and mention masturbation (that might seem like a terrible desperate ploy to draw attention to the fact that I have genitals, at the cost of appearing like a normal person who can acquire sexual partners… and yes, yes it is. Usually resorted to when drunk.)

So I bid the last person to have seen me naked and sober good night…. and logged off sadly.
It was at least 3am. I tossed and turned and… in amongst all that tossing and turning, managed to pull some kind of muscle in my hand.
Fucks sake… I am still able to type and stuff but it hurts. I doubt I actually pulled a muscle, it’s probably repetitive strain injury or something. I don’t know, it’s surprising because I thought of all the weak nerdy little muscles in my pasty body, the ones in mah strong hand were pretty fucking developed.

Oh and weird… you know bumchum? Yeah you do. Gotta give him another name because it’s creeping me out calling him that, but then it’s probably the best name I can come up with. So bumchum..
The other day I woke up to this weird-ass message from him on facebook. It was sent at 5am so clearly… a drunk dial. Ugh.
He was like “your husband is a piece of shit, he’s an asshole he should be dead he’s a dick”
And then there was another message from like 10 minutes later where he’s like “he’s an asshole what a bastard” or something and I was more than a little freaked out… because my first thought was, husband has finally snapped and done something fucked up. I mean he has a temper:  One time he was like, well if you ever cheat on me I will drag you through the street by your hair. And I was like hey no fair, and he’s all, well don’t cheat on me then. And I couldn’t really argue with that because arguing for the right not to suffer humiliation and violence if I cheated would have been letting him know I had already cheated on him and planned on doing it again…
Anyway…. when I broke up with him he was like “what the fuck, I was nice to you… I NEVER HIT YOU!” like he deserved a fucking medal or something. are you serious? You want to be credited with never hitting me? I know I can be a manipulative bitch sometimes but hitting me wouldn’t have done you any favours, you tool. I have a zero tolerance policy on violence. Not on cheating though. Asshole. All the more reason to leave the bastard. Anyway I was foolish and naive. No more beating myself up about this, please. Ok.

So this message from bumchum freaked me out.
I was all “wtf happened” right back at him… and then hours later he was all “nothing, your ex was just being a dick, he got all angry… he’s got problems”
So then I unleashed my own brand of fury on him because it’s one thing to send a fucked up drunken message, and quite another to just pooh pooh it the next day. He would have been off the hook if he had been all apologetic, but he wasn’t, so I got all up in his grill…

I was like, “that has fucking nothing to do with me. I don’t want or need you to share his rage or your rage at him with me. I don’t want to wake up to fucked up angry messages that only freak me out. If you have something to tell me that affects me in some way, give me information. Don’t just send me some bullshit rage bomb. I understand that you were drunk when you sent it but I don’t deserve to have to listen to this shit from anyone. I broke off contact with 99% of my friends here just so I can avoid any potentially awkward or uncomfortable encounters with my ex… that should give you a fucking good idea of I don’t want to know any more. And if you keep saying you find him so annyoing and such a dick, then stop fucking hanging out with him. And if you’re trying to make me think he’s more of a dick, then don’t. I judge people based on how they act towards me, and based on how he acted to me I already cut him out of my life so there is no need for more vague accusations.
I may get drunk and mention him sometimes, but that is my prerogative because he was a huge part of my life. He’s nothing to you, so he shouldn’t be causing this reaction in you.
So that’s all, I don’t want to hear any more on the subject.
Regards (actually I said like saludos which is friendlier, but it was in spanish you see.)


So. I flew a little off the handle there but damn that guy freaked me out with his overreaction. Who the fuck does he think he is? I’m not meeting up with him again that’s for sure. Ugh he creeps me out… if only I hadn’t let him into my bed.. however the fuck he got in there is still a mystery. I have to stop getting so drunk I don’t remember shit.

Anyway. Then he replied being like “oh sorry I was just drunk and angry, I realise you don’t need that shit blah blah blah” but I’m like, yeah cool but secretly I am never going to hang out with this weirdo again.

So… Another freak. Am I the only sane person? That’s not good. I was talking to my friend yesterday and she agreed he was a freak, just as I was about to start thinking wait did I go overboard in my “schooling” him in why he shouldn’t drunk dial me angry ex-hatred?

I realised, I have to talk to my friends more often. Like, involve them in my decisions. Look at the shit I have decided without consulting my friends:

Going to south america with a boyfriend. Marriage (with a different guy I met in south america). Buying an apartment with a mortgage. Moving to Italy.

Look at what I have decided with a little help from my friends:

To leave my husband. To leave Italy.

Eh, why am I such a pigheaded moron that I always insist on doing things alone and only asking for advice when I know I’ll hear confirmation of what I want to hear? Anyway we made a pact to in future, be super honest to each other about our new boyfriends and remind each other of what we want from a man next time our heads are full of crappy love hormones and we can’t think properly.

I am so sick of being “the cool girl” in relationships. I bend over backwards to act totally chilled out and cool about everything and like I’m not high maintenance, and I don’t buy into the classic romance shit and the flowers and actually yeah screw flowers but still, anyone who knows me a small bit could buy me jewelry or a bottle of 12 year old whiskey, it’s not hard to be thoughtful. I let these men into my life, I let them sprawl all over my personal space and fart and talk to me when they are on the toilet and they see me without makeup and I believe them when they tell me it’s ok to be hairy one time, and then we both become these hideous fat slobs who just don’t give a shit, and eventually we lose the desire to fuck each other because seriously, look at us!

So next time… Imma be high maintenance. I bet I would be really good at high maintenance too, I’m already bossy and domineering, I’ve just never used it on men because I always want to impress them with how I’m just “one of the guys” except screw that, you don’t fantasize about fucking one of the guys do you? No more of that Avril Lavigne bullshit. I’m going to cultivate an air of mystery. How? I do not know… but I have plenty of time to reinvent myself before I move to Londinium…

As usual this is followed by a disclaimer… the intentions to do things / change self for the better/ become a better social creature / drink less expressed above are not binding and are only vaguely representative of good intentions. Do not be disappointed if I wind up living in a trailer with a meth dealer in 6 months. Well.. do be disappointed. But just don’t be entirely surprised.

In other news….

My hair has never looked this good. It is soft, shiny, and awesome. I don’t know why… it is either due to the puke or the fact that when I washed out the puke I didn’t have any conditioner left so I just used shampoo.
Now, I am going to test this out tonight (by washing it with just shampoo, not vomiting) but I would appreciate if any of you feel like joining my experiment for the sake of furthering science and my desire not to buy any more conditioner.
So what you can do to help is, if you are throwiing up any time soon, don’t hold your hair back! No! Work it into the follicles baby. Seriously my hair looks amazing and I got all the bits out anyway, even without conditioner to help with the brushing.
Otherwise, maybe try to wash your normally non vomity hair with just shampoo and report back to me.
But don’t do both like I did, because then we will still be no wiser as to why my hair is so silky smooth.

It’s amazing. Seriously… like you know when you see a small child’s hair and think what a waste, they have such beautiful smooth soft hair and they don’t even go out clubbing, well that’s what my hair is like now.
It hasn’t shone at the tips like this since some 6 week hairdressing course bitch convinced me to bleach my hair so I could dye it brown after all the black… and then cut my hair like an ugly middle aged person. Two weeks before my wedding. It was an ominous sign… for a superstitious person, which I’m not. Fuck signs. But I wasn’t happy about looking so shit on my wedding day.

Tip: when in Italy, always wear makeup to get your hair cut. If you don’t look nice going into the salon, they will treat you like an unattractive person and not bother trying to make the cut suit your face, presuming you just want to make your miserable, pathetic existence easier by removing “all that pesky weight” from your coiff so you can wash it with minimal effort seeing how there is no point in you bothering with your appearance anyway.

Paranoid? Cynical? Moi? No, it’s italy… it’s italy did this to me. That’s what Italy thinks, I don’t think that… it’s Italy’s fault.

Stupid country.

Anyway sorry but I am baffled by the stupidity this morning.
Yeah I’m blogging at work again… my dad is likely to arrive any moment but I am a damn fool and I can’t honestly abide being so bored so…
He caught me yesterday and I was pressing shift F4 instead of Alt F4 so he saw me facebook chatting to my friend and luckily didn’t see the content of the messages… but he wasn’t happy.

Anyway… this morning I had a mother-daughter customer unit enter the shop.
Actually it was mother-daughter-father. The father was placed at the entrance to the shop (annoyingly in my personal space so I couldn’t blog safely as he could look at what I was writing. Asshole.) and he was quickly decorated with various shopping bags and coats. I offered if he wanted to put the things down on the pouff we have for trying on shoes. he smiled weakly and cast a furtive, fearful glance at his wife and daughter before turn to me and sadly saying “no no.. I’ll carry everything.”
They made him stand there (and me, stand their presence) for at least 45 minutes. Seriously. He could have sat down, put the stuff down… he just stood there. What a sad sack.
Way to let a pair of she-harpies slip your balls into a noose. I have very little sympathy….

Anyway the mother flitted back and forth from the dressing room, passing her daughter trousers and tops and jackets to try on. The daughter… and this was weird, right? Was trying on trousers at first with just her bra on. She had a shirt but for some reason wanted to try the pants on without the top, and then she opened the curtain to show me if the pants fit. Like, it’s not weird she showed me her boobs, but like… her dad was right there. She was like 17 or something. I dunno… I grew up with a stepdad and didn’t see my dad more than twice or three times a year so maybe I am particularly prudish (as well as whatever other issues I got, yes yes, it all becomes clear now, sorry to be such a cliche people) about being topless around fathers… It just seems weird to me. Maybe it’s totally normal, maybe normal families with married parents have naked pillow fights after dinner… who the fuck knows. Not me anyway.
Anyway so she’s in her little bra and these horrendous mc hammer pants, and the mother is flustering around trying to find something the daughter likes while the dad surveys his kid and is like “hmm well if you like them, go ahead” and she hasn’t the least bit of desire to cover her boobies.
Anyway. Enough about this.

So the mother enlists my help… I begrudgingly join in this madcap hunt for a pair of trousers… it doesn’t matter, the dad was obstructing my computer usage anyway. Selfish bastard.
So I suggest a different pair of mc hammer pants that will probably look nicer on although still, what a horrible waste of a 17 year old slender body, bagging it like lumpy vegetables, in a hot air baloon where farts marinate and any kind of obesity could be festering underneath, no one knows…
The mother likes the trousers… but I only have them in black. The daughter tries them on. No other colours? Pesters the mother after I just fucking said there was only black.
No, just black.
They would be nicer in green… my daughter likes green.
I swerve my eyes away from the topless teen, and smile knowingly, as if to say, ah yes, younguns and their obsession with green? Like I’m a fellow mother or something… urgh.
I tell her no, just black, but then I root out another slightly different pair in green and she takes that to her daughter who is just standing there in the changing room and could easily put on her top and come out and look at the clothes herself.

I leave them to their own devices for a while as my jealousy over the girl’s perfect boobs is making me stare, and hate her a little bit, and feel like a little bit of a perve.
So I ignore the family and read the news online.
Then the mother comes out with an arm full of crumpled rejected clothing and hangers sticking out of her ample bosom… ha ha her daughter’s boobs won’t stay nice forever, just look what genetics have in store for her! Exactly why she shouldn’t be wasting her hot years wearing baggy hippie shit now. Stupid girl.
Anyway I enquire politely about how the pants were… did the green ones look nice?
The mother dumps her armload of clothes and pointy hangers on my small and less shelf-like chesticles.

“Sorry… no. Well… the green ones were nice, but they would have been better in black. She just can’t see when she would wear a pair of green pants.”


I look down at my knuckles… If I had a hero other than myself I could think What Would THEY Do? Instead I’m like WHAT WOULD I DO? And that’s pretty fucking useless as a moral compas.
I did not sucker punch the woman in the face.
I did not ninja kick her daughter in the cleavage.

The father I had no real beef with, he was just a poor sap who should have been like ok you bitches go shopping, I’m gonna get me a quick lap dance.  Or he could have lied and said “I’m going to talk about sports with some other men” and gotten a lapdance without risking his wife’s wrath. That’s what I would have done, probably. I wouldn’t have married a spirit-crushing dominatrix like that anyway… or yeah, I kind of did. Boom.

But I just smiled at my non-customers and as they shuffled out of the shop on to waste the time of more hard working shop assistants, I hung up the bazillion items of clothing that the lazy bitch could have been hanging up while just standing there flashing her dad and waiting for her mum to pick out clothes for her to try on.

THEN I get another nut job..
A woman comes into the shop alone and asks “do you mind if we have a look around?”
I say of course not, go ahead… and wonder is there a dwarf behind her I can’t see? A small dog in her pocket? No.
She is alone.
Oh… maybe she has crabs and she was referring to herself and her parasites when asking if they could come in. I hope so, otherwise, she crazy.

So that’s all I have to share with you for now. I am sure some more wild adventures will strike me any time. Who knows what can happen… it’s a freaking rollercoaster ride

Can’t get over how soft my hair is. Seriously if it’s not the conditioner thing, which would mean conditioner is a massive scam, then I thoroughly reccommend you try washing your hair with bile.

Because seriously it’s worth it.



Just plucked up the courage to whip off the band-aid covering whatever the fuck happened Saturday night: I asked Andrea on facebook how the night ended.

GREAT NEWS! she was just as mouldy disgusting drunk as I was, and her SOBER boyfriend who drove the two of us home, conked out in his car, said we were fine, and didn’t seem too drunk.

She doesn’t remember anything either. Thank fuck for that! Oh that’s all I care about really… that my friend is as much of a legless mess as I am so I can be forgiven. Hall Ay FUCKING Yoo YAH!

I feel good.

Glossing over my shrill threats to mace guys on the dance floor…

I feel good.

I have managed to survive another night without losing this one last friend I have.


So… next weekend, right?

Next weekend there’s this party. Oh my god I can’t wait. It’s gonna be off the hook… AND I don’t have to work in the morning, so I can get proper messy. Oh dang, I know, I have learnt my lesson… no shots. I swear. I promise. Really. And I will not carry weapons either.

Ok really. I will be good. I have learnt from this experience, probably.


NOW it’s time for happy happy joy joy.

Scroll up to the to if you wanna do this blog reading experience right… If you don’t want to listen to happy happy joy joy twice, I will understand though.

11 responses to “Seriously why do we have to write titles? I’m stumped.

  1. So I have a theory to your shiny hair phenomenon.
    Vomit contains stomach acids. Gastric juice as they call it. Hydrochloric acid typically breaks up amino acids (protein molecules)…trying to remember from work; it’s been a while since I have consulted in the supplement department. lol

    aI have a feeling that the pukeage stripped the oilage from your hairage leaving it silky smooth. NOW all we have to do is bottle it up and sell it to the masses!!!! Shiny hair for all! woop!
    Vodka shots anyone?

    • Hmm… makes sense… No, I lie, I am totally ignorant of amino acids and other things in science etc. But actually my hair wasn’t greasy, it’s normally dry at the ends and they are now shiny. So maybe my puke doubled as a restorative mask? I did eat a lot of avocado… Anyway we won’t know anything until someone (ahem) volunteers to do some experimentation!

          • sure why not!? Get me drunk enough I’ll either cry or pick a fight with a doorman. Oh wait, that was me in my early 20’s. Now I’d probably get all Gandhi on ya. lmao Oooohhhmmmmm…….

          • Sounds great… count me in! I’ll probably try to make the doorman come onto me without making eye contact, then if he does make a move I’ll threaten to mace him, then vomit everywhere and start wailing about how men don’t like me. Damn it I’m in my mid 20s now… should probably get a new routine! “Ohmmmm…” nah I’m not feeling it…

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